I'm an addict.
no matter how cliche it may sound.

His oceans eyes drift me away from my pain.
The stupid little smirk he wears,
makes my teeth gleam for everyone to see.
The deep tone of his whispering voice
rings through my head when he's not even around,
making me miss him terribly,
needing another dose to keep going.

The times I do see him,
I overdose on happiness,
and laugh like a fool.
I pool through my emotions to
focus on him.
The present rather than the past.
I use every last second we have
to share eyes and spill the words I have to say.

But sometimes,
too many words become meaningless.
So he holds me and we whisper.
Whisper three words most dear to us.
I Love You
to me, the most beautiful words spoken if true.
and when he says it, it will do.

I need the sunsets,
purple and orange
and angry for having to leave.
I need the ocean,
blue and aqua
and enraged by a storm.
I need the wind,
swift and cool
and tearing trees from their roots.
I need the fire,
warm and comforting
and turning everything to ashes.
I need the land,
strong and sure,
and temperamental with its shaking.
I need the feeling,
of love and contentment
and lust and heat
and pain and strength.
Oh to want
both the anger
and the happiness,
the love
and the hate,
the softness
and the pain.
And to wish to want
naught more
than what you give me
But to always want more
than what i have.
The greif there is
in contradiction, and
the hurt there is
in not being enough.
But to want more
is to be human, and
it is in being human
that we love.
So i will take
what it is you give, and
hope and pray
i will want
naught more than you.

i met a man upon the road
who carried his mind in a thicket of thorns
bluejays nesting in his thoughts had built it
one thorny troubled thought at a time
untill he staggered as he walked from the weight
of this contraption of the mind
like a drunkard in the backstreets of seaside town
he would sit by the small cafe or coffee house
and sing for young lovers such songs as ballads of old
or ones from folk singers and childhoods fancy
bright songs of good cheer

at the end of the long summer day
as the cafe and coffee shop would shutter their doors
he would gather his coin
and bid the day fare thee well
would climb slowly the flower strewn hill
sit under the great oak tree
and prune his thicket of a mind
with pinking shears and a hacksaw
with a farmer's plow and the beekeepers glove

a thousand fold bluebirds moving as one
with a terrible sound of wings upon the air
a soft beating of wings like a hearts dry thunder
each carrying a twig to add to his thorny thicket
which was now larger than the man himself
he would wrestle with it all the long night
till sleep overtook him there under the great oak tree

so he lingered here by the sea for years
at the whims of romance by lovers in the coffee house by daylight
and the light of the moon that lead him to dance
in a maiden hayfield at night
he would sing ballads to the star light
and to the wisps of clouds flying the night sky

they buried him with his thicket of thorns
at the top of the hill
below the stars that weep even now
he asked me why once
why none helped him be free of his thicket of thorns
why not one took pity and took his hand to at least comfort
and i told him that the world had
in bluebirds that kept him company
in coffee houses that loved his songs
in me that came to know him at long last
not as a man with a thicket of thorns
but as an empire of bluebirds playing in the skies
just at dawns first light